


Fire and Flowers

by laEsmeralda



Series: Walking the Walk [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda





	Fire and Flowers

The explosion blooms behind him, fiery petals displacing the world as it was, crushing him down, brimstone and the deafening sound of fragmenting metal rolling over him. _He didn’t sense it coming, wasn’t three moves ahead, lost the game._

He struggles to his feet, starts to run into the inferno, the agony in his chest realizing what his mind refuses. He cries out for Kate. He’s grabbed from behind, restrained by someone too strong for him even with the adrenaline pouring through him. He fights anyway.

“I got you. I got you,” the sleep-roughened voice rumbles at his ear. “Shh.”

He’s sobbing, becomes aware of it, sucks in a deeper breath to get control. He stops clawing at Peter’s arm, stops trying to get away. He shivers with feverish cold despite the sweat slicking him. Peter is curled around him, offering safety and comfort, but there’s no place to hide from the grief or the horror. He lets the tears run, gropes for the still-kept-nearby tissue box. 

Peter presses a tissue into his hand, kisses the juncture of neck and shoulder softly. “Does it happen a lot?” he asks after a long quiet.

God bless Peter for not having to ask what. 

Instinctively, he minimizes. “Couple times a week.”

“Giving grief its run is one thing,” Peter says, using the sheet to dry him, somehow without letting him loose, “but this…”

“You were there too.” He doesn’t like that his own voice sounds defensive.

“I didn’t lose the love of my life. I can smell the shock on you. This is PTSD.”

Neal shrugs. “What can I do…”

Peter doesn’t hesitate. “See the FBI Brainspotting consultant.”

“I don’t want to talk to a shrink,” Neal says, flatly. 

“It’s not about _talking_ it out.” Peter rearranges pillows with one hand. “It’s a technique to move the mis-stored memories from the neurons where the trauma stuck them to the ones that are meant to keep them. It works.” Peter’s tone doesn’t invite probing. “If you’d like to think of her without flashing back to that explosion, reliving it in your body, then you’ll trust me on this.”

Neal takes another, slightly less raggedy deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here.” He wraps his arms around Peter’s, holding him in place. 

“I wish I’d known sooner. Should have realized…” Peter kisses the soft spot behind Neal’s jaw, sweeps away sweat, or tears, with his tongue. “You miss her. And then there’s survivor’s guilt. You don’t need this too.”

“Okay. Tomorrow, help me connect with this… consultant,” Neal says.

Peter makes a skeptical noise. 

“I promise I’ll see it through.” Neal turns his face as far as he can in Peter’s embrace, offering his mouth. 

Gently, Peter accepts. Despite the adrenaline, there’s nothing sexual at work in Neal at the moment, and as usual, Peter responds just right. His lips move as though Neal is precious and fragile, the sweep of his tongue as deferential as a woman’s.

What Neal feels, pouring back into him with ethereal strength, is love. Deep acceptance by this man—despite his unyielding grip on Neal’s legal boundaries—means so much. Too much. He knows it to be his greatest vulnerability. At times like this, he forgets to care. The word _inamorato_ echoes back through his memory in Peter’s low, rich voice, fresh from their first tumble. It almost starts the tears again. He manages to squirm to his back without loosening Peter’s arms, and basks in the kiss, the warmth of spring sun on bare skin. When Peter breaks away and presses lips to his face, his eyelids, his forehead, a nourishing rain, he aches to say the words he keeps stoppered behind his heart. But he doesn’t.

Peter sighs and relaxes back, drawing Neal with him to rest against his chest. He’s soon back to sleep. Neal isn’t, but he’s content to rest there. Neal’s fingertips ever so softly rub a little circle on Peter’s chest, just over his heart, feeling it beat, strong and even, but so mortal. 

Peter is always coming to the rescue, shielding Neal, with his gun and badge and office, his words, often with his own body. Slighter, more subtle, Neal employs less noticeable methods, he hopes. It’s important to Peter to take the brunt of risk and responsibility for his team. But Neal is always looking out for him too. The ferocity of his protectiveness toward Peter still surprises him, the level of panic he feels when Peter is in danger. Elizabeth has lived with this every day for many years, he realizes. Because of her, he isn’t alone tonight with the nightmare.  
*******

Elizabeth opens the door to a grinning delivery girl. With her own more bemused smile, she accepts the huge bouquet of the flowers she loves and reaches for her purse only to be waved away as the girl bounds down the steps. Still standing at the open door, she rifles gently through the many stems for the card—vellum envelope, Italian Renaissance illumination “E.” Of course. Neal. 

_Dear Ms. Elizabeth Mitchell Burke,_

_It is not my place to greet you at the door with a kiss, sweep you off your feet, and make love to you. What I may rightfully do is pay attention to details on your behalf. Thus, I will make sure as best I can, with the devotion of my humble skills, that Peter is safe and comes home to you every night. Well… nearly every night, but always safely. For it is mine to discover the right flowers (and rediscover them as your tastes change), and his to attend to the rest._

_With Deepest Affection and Gratitude,_

_Neal George Caffrey_

She elbows the door closed, laughing at his cheekiness, heart warmed to his research, insides fluttering at the brazen undertones. She places the stunning blooms in her best vase, on the dining table, and doesn’t hide the card.  
*******


End file.
